Psyche's Undoing
by Ava Caita
Summary: PFN Third Morbidity Contest. Oneshot. Luciana, daughter of Giovanni, has been keeping a diary. These are her own words written with her own pen and transcribed here ...


**A/N: **Inspired by Susan Kay's _Phantom_. If you haven't read that version yet, then the ending won't make any sense and will lose all the irony I had intended. If you have, please read & review!

* * *

25 December 1844

Mio Diario Caro,

Today is Christmas, and instead of being at home with Papa, I am here with Auntie Marcella in Milan. Her house smells funny. This could be due to the sheer number of cats that come and go as they please. She dotes on them like a happy mother, but she's said little to me in the two weeks I've been here. This is further proof that I'm alone and unloved in a world where a mangy cat gets more affection.

Papa mustn't love me either. '_Luciana, __mia chiave di volta_,' was all he said before he sent me off to a convent on the other side of the world. And I wrote him letters of such wretched despair at my situation too. Letters that all went unanswered. What has made me so unlovable in his eyes? In the very least, he's sent me this lovely leather-bound diary. I suppose that must account for something. Even if there was no note attached begging me to come home at once.

In a few days I must return to the convent. I've grown to hate that cold stone building more than anywhere else I've been — save, perhaps, Auntie's attic — and I wish only to be back with my father.

Let me tell you about the convent! It's filled to bursting with tactless young ladies who come from rich and poor families alike. The ones from money are the third and fourth daughters, and so they are not worth as much in marriage. Those from poorer families are there for the education to go on and become governesses for those very girls with whom they went to school. And where do I fit in? I'm a Master Mason's fourth daughter. Papa sent me off with a few dresses, which pale in comparison to the wealthy girls' frocks. Yet, they are too nice looking to allow me in the circles of the less fortunate. I feel as though I'm the ugly duckling from the storybooks.

And I don't mind admitting there's a fair bit of jealousy sent against me. From the moment I walked up the entrance hall I was judged by the whey-faced girls for being too beautiful. I know this is so, for why else wouldn't anyone speak with me?

I have to convince Papa this summer that I don't belong there. I don't belong with such silly girls who don't understand my sense of adventure. Papa understands me, or least I thought he did before I came here. I miss my father. I wish he would write.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

27 May 1845

Mio Diario Caro,

I apologise for such a lengthy time between entries. I had to attend to my lessons and strive for top marks. If nothing else, Papa will expect that I've done my best.

This isn't why I came with quill and ink. I'm here because we've been let off lessons early, which means … I'm finally going HOME! Sister Agnes and Sister Elizabeth both came down with something dreadful. There are whispers among the girls that it's the return of the plague. I don't care what it is because in a short time I'll be far from the ravages of disease! And I shan't return to this dreary place for all the lira in Italy.

I'm too excited to sleep tonight. All that stands between me and my father now is a long carriage ride back.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

8 June 1845

Mio Diario Caro,

A curious event happened to me when I finally arrived home. Papa was in the courtyard in his finest suit (completely surprised by my arrival — oops), and in the corner of the garden stood a tall young man in a white mask and long black travelling cloak. He had to be ushered forward by Papa, and when I went to make my introductions he refused to touch my hand! The rudeness was appalling, but Papa said nothing to check him. Not until later did I find out his name … _Erik_.

I'm absolutely fascinated by him. How did my father meet him? Where did he come from? Why does he wear a mask to cover his face? My mind is reeling with possibilities. Maybe he is royalty and doesn't wish for his face to be recognised. But then, why would he not remove his mask in the house? Doesn't he trust us with his secret? He must be too beautiful to behold by mere mortal eyes.

I've rarely seen him at all today. Every time I enter a room he disappears, as if by magic. Papa advises me to '_let the boy be'_, but I can hardly hear him for all the questions in my head. I wish to ask Erik to tell me about himself so that I may glean some history … some knowledge of his life. I wish ever so much that he would simply speak to me with his voice that turns fantasy to reality. A voice of rich colour and sharp glass. He holds power over me with every word he speaks. He's tall and graceful, and if I may be so bold as to write it down … I think I could find it very easy to love him. Papa would be pleased with the match!

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

19 June 1845

Mio Diario Caro,

Erik is an awful, terrible, horrible boy! He never speaks to me, and when he finally does it's a polite request to let him by in the hallway! I made a flippant remark that he must think me too large to walk past in such an open space.

He mumbled, '_We must overact our part in some measure, in order to produce any effect at all._'

I don't even know what that means, yet it's familiar to me. As if, as if I've heard it before in a dream. I only wish for him to touch my hand, or lean against my shoulder. I was too upset to trick him into doing so; he left and I crumpled into tears upon the stone floor. I would've been happy to fall into a tantrum, but he makes me feel like such a child when I cry. He's nothing like Papa, nor anyone I've ever known. Something inside me wakes when he is near. Something I've never felt for anyone before. Oh, why won't he reach out to brush his fingertips against my cheek?

And all I can do when I see him is be a belligerent baby. He shames me in so many ways that I'm reduced to the one behaviour I know to be abhorrent and effective — my sharp tongue. He is the consummate gentleman; I am a vulgar little girl. I know no other way to attract his attention. Father, forgive me. Erik, forgive me.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

23 September 1845

Mio Diario Caro,

I have done the most dishonourable thing I can imagine. I've feigned illness so that Papa would send away the carriage and keep me home this school year. And what's worse is that Erik was dearly concerned for my well-being. He even made me a potion to alleviate the symptoms my equally-at-fault body produced. Is tragedy the only way I can get him to notice me?

I've also snuck into the cellar while Erik was away at the building site. Such wonders I couldn't imagine a bland place like that could hold. Every inch of the stone floor was covered with sheets of music. I regret the tantrums I threw before my own piano lessons as a child. The notes were full and vibrant, yet I barely grasped which key it had been written in. And the sheets that didn't contain staves of music had gorgeous drawings of buildings and cathedrals and palaces. They seemed to be taken straight from the fairy tales I was told as a child. I imagined easily living in one of these places with Erik as my husband. In those dreams he was never just civil to me. He would take off his mask and reveal the true god that he is underneath.

Even the walls held some mystery to me, for every shelf contained some strange object with wires and metal and glass. I barely dared to breathe let alone touch the things I found. One contraption in particular caught my eye. I knew Erik would not return for several more hours — if he returned at all — and so I reached out and pushed what looked like a switch. It shot white hot sparks in my direction and I must have screamed then. I ran up the stairs and right into Papa. He demanded to know what I had been doing; I told him. He's forbidden me to go into the cellar again. But I must know more about this boy who creates fantastical devices and hides his face.

Now and again I wake in the middle of the night to hear him playing the spinet that Papa brought down to the cellar. The melodies are sweet and delicate some nights and others they are fierce and discordant. They comfort and hurt and cause me to dream so vividly I hardly remember who I am when I wake. I know that I will never be able to live without him. Without Erik I am nothing.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

2 June 1846

Mio Diario Caro,

I've neglected you again. It seems I only turn to you when something of consequence has occurred in my life. This time is, sadly, no different. I decided to turn the rooftop into a delightful garden. Papa ordered several large urns for me to plant lilacs, begonias, and roses in. And Erik, the boy who holds my heart but doesn't give me his in return, agreed to make a bench which I can sit on to read.

Instead of keeping a civil tongue I continued to berate him all morning with crude insults as he set to work on the rough rock. I called him slow, weak, and frivolous in his duties. He took it all and didn't snap back at me, though Papa tried several times to make me hold my tongue.

It's been three weeks since the plants were put to earth. I admit that I haven't been looking after them the way I should, but he had no right to tell me I was neglectful. No right at all. I was only trying to elicit some kind of response from his stoic presence. In my haste, I threw my watering can at him and ran here to my room. I'm so frustrated with everything. Growing up I was always called the pretty child. When I was a bit older pretty turned to beautiful. Why doesn't he see it? Why am I reduced to some blathering idiot when I'm near him? Why is my heart breaking when all I do is continue to love him? There must be some way to his heart.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

17 June 1846

Mio Diario Caro,

I don't know if this is a way to his heart, but I've discovered a way for him to notice me at last. Two days ago, while I was watering my plants, I tripped over a vine of ivy and fell onto the garden floor. The brass can's lip bent into my thumb and the stone ground tore bits of flesh from my palms. Erik rushed to assist me once he saw the amount of blood dripping from my fingers, but as always he didn't touch me. Instead, he instructed me to hold out my hands while he tipped out what was left in the watering can. He demanded that I rub the dirt out as the water spilled into my wounds. A funny feeling pulled at the bottom of my stomach. It was pain and exhilaration at the same time. Erik was talking to me! He knows I exist!

He made me follow him to the kitchen where he boiled some water and concocted some kind of terrible smelling salve, which he later smeared across my palms. Then he bandaged my thumb securely with strips of clean white cloth. His fingers were cool, but as soon as he touched me it was almost like his life-fire flowed through him and into me. I replayed that moment in my mind over and over for the past few hours and it still makes me giddy inside. He touched me!

Writing this hurts, but once my hands heal I'm going to see if I can't get his attention again.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

3 July 1846

Mio Diario Caro,

My hopes have been rewarded with his tender caress yet again. This morning I went to the rooftop to inspect the bench, but what I discovered instead were rose thorns. Naughty rose thorns that sliced through the skin of my forearm like paper. Thick rich red blood pooled to the surface and I delighted to watch it trickle down my arm.

I ran down the stairs to find Erik. He at once calmed me down from my false hysteria and cleaned the wounds. I made up some story about not being able to hold the watering can properly due to the tender flesh, and he didn't question me further. Again I was rewarded for my destructive behaviour with the touch of his skin. I could make out the muscles that corded through his nimble arms. It sent shivers of delight through me. Such a feeling was worth any pain the thorns may have temporarily caused me.

Erik's forbidden me to go to the garden for a month. He said he would look after my plants. He cares about me. He must love me. He must! And I will be Psyche to his Cupid. For that's what I've finally figured he is — Cupid. He hides his face from the world because he is too splendid to gaze at without the aid of his mask. And now that I know his secret, I will keep it next to my heart for always.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

19 August 1846

Mio Diario Caro,

Papa has conceded at last to allow me to stay here and keep house for him. He seems to notice me even less than Erik. I suppose that's a blessing, in a way, for he hasn't asked me about the increasing number of jagged purple marks that adorn my forearms now. The trick worked so well for months, but now I suspect Erik's caught on. He refuses to answer the cellar door when I knock for help. The last time I cut myself with a pair of exquisite golden scissors … he didn't even come to my aid. I suffered quietly in my room reliving that buoyant feeling of pain and pleasure until I drifted off to dreams of Cupid coming to fight off Erik for my hand. Erik always wins.

And there have been wicked rumours about Erik at Papa's worksite. I won't believe they're true. I can't believe they're true. I have to cling to those dreams to stay alive. Erik's the only thing keeping me in this reality now.

Just yesterday I caught my reflection in the looking glass. My skin has lost its olive glow and my hair is dull and lacklustre. None of my dresses fit right anymore. They simply hang about my body like cheap potato sacks. I'm starting to fade away, and only Erik can save me. Only seeing his face will redeem me of my crimes.

Amore, Lucia

o . O . o

28 August 1846

Mio Diario Caro,

I've well and truly done it now. Erik came home this evening and retreated to the cellar. I'd slaved over a meal for countless hours and he didn't even have the common courtesy to taste it! I rushed into the cellar and began to break all of his things. Glass shattered all around me, as did Erik's patience. He stormed off and I was left to pick up the pieces of my broken heart. He'll never touch me again. He'll never send that trail of fire through my skin.

I must see him! I must beg him for his forgiveness! I will throw myself at his feet and demand he show me his true face. His beauty will heal my soul. My heart. My body. He is the god that I've waited for for so long.

The door downstairs just opened. It must be him. I hear his step in the creak of the stairs. He is here! Is he coming to my room? No, he's going to the garden.

I go to meet my fate. Erik, I've loved you always even through my temper. Please love me back and we'll fulfil our destinies together.

Amore, Lucia

The End


End file.
